


Find The Link

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Curses, M/M, Magical Realism, POV Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24141874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: From a prompt:Greg surreptitiously takes a photo of Mycroft when he is visiting a crime scene. He likes to look at it sometimes and dream about asking him out on a date. One day he looks at the photo, only to discover that Mycroft has disappeared from the image.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 34
Kudos: 194
Collections: Mystrade Is Magic





	Find The Link

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Paia for the wonderful list of prompts you maintain, and for this collection. <3

As soon as Sally left, Greg felt his fingers stealing into his pocket yet again. It must be a bad day, he thought to himself, if he was taking the photo out before lunchtime. Usually he could fight the urge, but this morning had been unusually bad. The number of missing people in the last week had skyrocketed and Greg’s team were under pressure to take on more cases. They had enough of their own to be going on with, but of course the brass didn’t really care about that. It was all about clearance rates, and public image, and other things Greg hadn’t realised were important to policing when he’d signed up. Not long, he told himself. Not long until he reached pension age, and he could leave it all behind.

Though he knew it was probably an anomaly, Greg was deliberately avoiding the news. He found what he needed first hand – opening curtains to check the weather, jumping in a cab if the tube was delayed, and hearing all the gossip and then some from Sally. At the end of his day, he was happy to close the door and ignore everything else. The last thing he wanted when he came home was an update on how fast the world was going to shit. Logically, he knew it was only happening in London and had nothing to do with the state of politics in the Middle East, or the alarming new reports about some new virus mutating on the other side of the world. He hand enough of his own problems to deal with right now, thanks very much.

At least he had the photo to distract him when everything became a bit too much.

Drawing out the moment of quiet in his office, Greg ran his fingers over the photo without taking it out of his wallet. When this was all over, he’d do it. Screw up his courage and ask Mycroft out for a drink. If he was being a coward, he’d let Mycroft decipher what that meant on his own. If it happened to be a braver moment, he could add a raised eyebrow or a hand brushing over a shoulder. Something understated but hopefully clear, if Mycroft’s mind had wandered in that direction at all. Not that Greg had any idea about Mycroft, but he knew himself, and more of his life regrets were things left unsaid or undone. He’d rather get shot down than never have asked – eventually.

By now Greg didn’t even need to look at the photo, the image was so firmly implanted in his brain. He’d taken it surreptitiously one night, when he was meant to be grabbing a quick picture of something at a scene. As he framed the shot he realised Mycroft was in it, one hand raised to his mouth, brow furrowed slightly as he thought about something. It had only taken a second to change the focal point, and Greg ended up chasing the information he’d needed for his case through other means – but he got the shot. It was getting suspicious, having his phone out all the time, so he had it printed. Slipping it into the back of his wallet felt odd; it was a long time since Greg had had a sweetheart, but this felt very similar.

Greg closed his eyes, taking the photo from his pocket without looking. He could find the corner sticking out of his wallet without even trying anymore. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes, anticipating them settling on the familiar outline of Mycroft’s face, of the delicate curve of his hand…

But it was gone.

Greg frowned, turning the paper over, which was ridiculous. It was the same photo; the big crease on one corner was still there, and the background hadn’t changed. It was only Mycroft that was gone, the street behind him visible as though he’d never been there in the first place. Greg was still blinking at the image, unable to process what had happened. Hesitantly, he pulled out his phone, keeping his eyes squarely on the spot Mycroft was meant to be as though the whole picture might disappear if he looked elsewhere.

Dialling from memory, he kept very still as the phone rang. He was breathing, but his chest was hardly moving, just in case something might crumble his world further.

_Why what where how…how how how…_

“Hi,” he said when the line picked up. “I’ve got something weird I need to you look at.”

“No,” Sherlock replied, with more boredom than irritation. “I have plenty to do.”

“This is…different,” Greg said. He was beginning to realise he was going to have to explain himself to Sherlock, which wasn’t going to be fun, but if anyone could figure this out – or might already know – it was Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Fine,” he said, as though it was the most inconvenient thing Greg could possibly conceive of doing, “come immediately.”

 _Before I change my mind_ was heavily implied.

Greg nodded, hanging up and carefully sliding the altered picture in his wallet. Sally stood as he blew past her, barely nodding in her direction before he was out the door. He’d hear for his sudden absence, but this wasn’t something that could wait, nor could it be easily explained. Forgiveness instead of permission, he reminded himself.

+++

Pacing in Sherlock’s front room, Greg was too nervous to be embarrassed. The anxiety roiled in his stomach as Sherlock sat in his chair, that infuriatingly smug look on his face. Greg recognised it, which was both good and bad. Good, because it was the expression that meant, “You’re so stupid, why don’t you see the answer?”, but bad because it made Greg want to punch him and that wouldn’t much help his cause right now.

“Well?” Greg asked finally. “Come on Sherlock, we both know you know what’s going on.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied without a shred of modesty, “of course I do.”

Greg stopped pacing and took a deep breath. “Sherlock,” he said evenly, “while you may think you hold the upper hand here, let me remind you who lets you into their crime scenes, who gives you cold cases, and who has turned a blind eye to a frankly astonishing level of drug use over the past five years.” He crossed his arms, hoping his bluff wasn’t too visible. “Just tell me.”

Sherlock paused for one more long beat before sighing and rolling his eyes. “My brother is so dramatic.”

Greg blinked. “What?”

He expected to hear Sherlock had stolen his wallet and chemically altered the picture somehow. That was the only explanation he’d come up with on the way over here, though it didn’t explain how the street behind Mycroft was now visible, or how the photo appeared perfectly undamaged. At this point, Greg didn’t even care what the explanation was, he just wanted to know what was going on.

_Just tell me Mycroft is safe._

“My brother,” Sherlock said, his eyes sharper than the lounging body would suggest. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Well, kind of,” Greg started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Look, he clearly knows you have this picture,” Sherlock said. “And he’s sending you a message.”

“A message?” Greg repeated. At least this was familiar – he felt completely stupid, and Sherlock was enjoying it. “Why would he-”

“Oh for the love of science,” Sherlock exploded, “he’s disappeared! From this!” He stabbed one finger into the picture sitting on the desk. “Can’t you put it together?”

Greg bit the inside of his mouth. It would be hard for Sherlock to explain himself with a broken nose, he reminded himself.

_Hard but not impossible…_

No.

“Please, Sherlock,” Greg asked as evenly as possible. “Clearly I don’t understand. I’m an idiot. Explain it to me. In short words, if you want, with as many rude comments as you can manage. Just explain it. Please.”

Sherlock stopped rolling his head back and looked at Greg, his eyes assessing, until he finally spoke.

“There’s a link,” he said, and to Greg’s enormous surprise, his voice was direct and calm. “Between this disappearance and all the others. If he wanted you to know more he would have told you himself. Find the link, and you’ll find Mycroft.”

“Find the link,” Greg repeated. “Wait, find Mycroft?”

_Where is he?_

The question didn’t need to be voiced; of course Sherlock heard it anyway.

“I suspect he’ll have left London,” Sherlock said patiently.

“This has happened before?” Greg asked. “I mean…do you know what’s going on?”

Sherlock sighed. “If Mycroft’s gone to all this trouble, it’s hardly up to me to explain.”

Greg stared. “Since when have you shown any restraint in that department?”

“Since my brother has obviously taken steps to show you his…abilities,” Sherlock replied evenly.

_Abilities? What the hell is he talking about?_

Greg stared. “He’s done all this?”

 _Jesus, Mycroft’s made all those people disappear?_ The potential for a sinister interpretation was not lost on Greg, but he couldn’t believe it of Mycroft, not without an explanation. So many people…

“Not in the sense you’re imagining,” Sherlock replied. “He is as innocent as he always has been.”

To Greg’s astonishment he looked….amused? Certainly less judgemental than Greg expected. He wasn’t sneering, or rolling his eyes any more. It was possible he was actually taking this conversation seriously.

“Right,” Greg said faintly. “So this link…”

“Between the others that have disappeared,” Sherlock said. He was far more patient than Greg could ever remember his being. This must be really important. “You must have access to their files. Find the link and you’ll know where to go.”

“Right,” Greg said, expecting this semi-comprehensible statement to be as much he’d get out of Sherlock. It was usually where the direction ended, but to his surprise, Sherlock continued.

“It won’t be immediately clear,” Sherlock remarked, “Scotland Yard has been working through the obvious connections. Although given my brother has evidently gone to a great deal of trouble to attract your attention, I imagine it might be more evident to you than anyone else.”

He was abnormally quiet and still as Greg nodded, his brain already racing. “Thanks,” Greg said.

“You owe me cases,” Sherlock replied, a smile tugging at the end of his mouth.

Ah, there was the smugness Greg had expected to see. That little touch of normality helped him get a grip. “Right,” he replied.

Now that he had something to do, it was easier. A quick smile of thanks to Sherlock. Back to work, straight to his boss, request the files from all the disappearances.

 _A tip_ , he lied without pause, _something that ties all the disappearances together._

The Super frowned. He didn’t look entirely like he was concentrating; the paperwork in front of him crinkled as he shifted the pages around. “This isn’t anything to do with that Sherlock person is it?” he asked distractedly.

 _Wrong Holmes_ , Greg thought wryly.

“No sir,” he said. “Look, Donovan’s been pushing for more responsibility. If she takes the lead on the Marsden thing, and I can take a day on this lead, I’ll know if it’s worth putting someone out there.”

The Super sighed, putting his papers down and finally looking at Greg properly. The words hung in the air, and Greg could see the rejection in his boss’ eyes before it even made it to his mouth.

“I’ll take it as unpaid leave,” he added. “Help the monthly budget out a little.”

He’d trade a month’s leave for a single day off to chase this down. He could feel his heart pounding, hoping he wouldn’t have to actually offer more. He hoped whatever Mycroft had done was something he could figure out. Mycroft would know how smart he was, right? And he’d have plenty of explanation for the photo. Greg concentrated on looking eager about the case rather than desperate to chase down something he couldn’t even really explain.

“Take two days,” the Super said finally. “Unpaid, mind you.” He huffed an unimpressed laugh. “Budget needs more than that, bloody Commissioner’s going to have my guts for…” he cleared his throat, apparently realising who he was addressing. “You’re sure Donovan’s up to it?”

“Yessir,” Greg replied. His heart was still thumping as he nodded and turned, leaving his boss’s office.

_Right._

First thing was to find Sally. Given that he could offer her an acting-DI role (well, kind of), the apology for bailing earlier was well received and it wasn’t long before he was sweet talking Carla in records into giving him copies of every missing person’s file in Greater London in the last two weeks.

“You sure?” she said, pointing at the long list that appeared on her screen. “Or do you mean the ones the special task force are working on?”

“Let’s start there,” Greg agreed. It would narrow it down a bit and if there was a link between these cases… He couldn’t think about what came next. One step at a time.

“Thanks Carla,” Greg said as she handed him a pile of folders. This list was smaller than the last, of course, but still enough to be going on with.

A quick stop at Tesco on the way home – he was gonna need smokes to get through this. So much for all the work he’d done cutting back, he thought, throwing a couple of packets of chocolate digestives in too. If he was gonna fall, might as well fall hard. The thought wound through his head as he walked home, hardly aware of his surroundings until he was in his sitting room. The slap of the files on his coffee table was loud in the silence.

Slumping onto the sofa, a wave of doubt came over Greg, and he wiped sweaty palms down his trousers. Jesus. What if he couldn’t figure it out? Was Mycroft in trouble of some kind? Was he in danger? The idea that he might not be able to get out of whatever situation he’d put himself sent cold fingers of fear down Greg’s back.

_No option but to make it work._

With a deep breath, Greg pulled the first file close. He needed to read through everything first. Hopefully something would jump out at him.

Three hours later, nothing had jumped out at him. Greg rubbed his eyes, wincing as he allowed himself to sit back. He’d read through every file, forcing himself to go slowly, to not skate impatiently over details that might be critical. His head was swirling with names, dates and places. Nothing made sense. As far as he could see, the fifteen people who had disappeared without a trace had nothing in common. Some had things in common with others, as Greg expected from so many people living in the same city, but there was no single thread winding through to connect them all. He stared at the lists he’d begun, each scrawled out as he realised it was wrong.

Four were teachers.

Three had connections to the Royal Shakespeare Company.

All lived in London – their only commonality, as far as Greg could tell, and hardly worth mentioning.

Several held memberships to the same football team, visited the same Church or were born in the same hospital.

Two shared a birthday.

The closest was links to Oxford University; six had attended and five others had siblings who had done so. This line of enquiry had evidently appeared promising. Pages and pages of records proved that several constables had spent what were probably dozens of mind numbing hours tracing connections to the institution, but they’d petered out into nothing. It felt irritating, as though he was close but missing some slight shade of meaning, some angle of perspective that would make it all clear.

_Not Oxford, but similar..._

Greg sighed. He lit a smoke, berating himself as he did, gasping as the nicotine hit his system. Christ, he’d forgotten how strong it was when you went back to it. At least he’d be able to make this pack last, then. With a deep breath – this one not filtered through his cigarette – Greg shuffled the files and started again. Maybe he needed to see them in a different order.

Another few hours, and still nothing. Greg could feel the frustration building.

_Need a break._

It was past supper time and he could do with the fresh air. Ignoring the irony of fresh air when he’d just picked up his smokes along with his keys, Greg slid his wallet in his jacket. He was still trying to decide between Indian and pizza when he realised it was raining.

“Bollocks,” he muttered. At least that made it easy; the Indian was on the corner. Much closer.

His brain was still running through ideas as he ordered and paid.

_Parents._

_Friends._

_Hairdresser?_

_Tradespeople._

_Gym._

The rain had eased and darkness had fallen while Greg was inside. Something caught his eye and he stopped.

Gentle rain falling through a streetlight, silvery in the light, shifting with the light wind.

It was hardly a unique sight, but with Mycroft playing on his mind, Greg was reminded of the first night they’d met.

He’d been standing on a corner in the rain. Not this corner, but one just like it, holding takeaway and frowning at his phone as Karen blew off their date night again. He remembered staring up at the rain in the streetlight, wondering if it was worth pulling up his collar for the walk home now that there’d be nothing but an empty flat waiting for him.

And then a fancy car glided to a stop, and a smooth voice said something clever to convince him to get inside. At the time he’d thought it was a bit much, dark suit and carefully controlled eyebrow, but now he knew it was how Mycroft cared for his little brother.

All mystery and intrigue, Greg thought to himself.

Posh clubs and dank warehouses.

Posh clubs and…

Dank warehouses. That first one had been the worst of the lot.

Something pinged in his brain.

What was the name of the warehouse again?

Shellingford.

_Shellingford._

Greg had seen that name lately. Somewhere in the files he’d been reading. Was that a coincidence? He stared at the rain falling through the light, feeling the tingle that meant his intuition was onto something.

_Is this it?_

Heart thumping, Greg started walking home, trying to put his thoughts into some kind of order. The more he thought, the more convinced he was that he’d seen that name more than once, but it was all mixed up in his head. Blindly, he opened his phone, searching for _Shellingford._

The first result was a small town in Oxfordshire.

_Oxfordshire…_

Abandoning the Indian on the kitchen bench, Greg reached for a notebook and pen. He could feel his hand shaking, so he took a second to breathe in, closing his eyes. This could be nothing. It always felt like this when you thought you had something.

Letting it out, he reached for the first file.

An hour later, Greg sat back. His hands were shaking again, but this time, he had another list, a longer list. It wasn’t complete yet, but the word kept coming up, and he knew he was onto something. He’d have to dig for the others but at least he knew what he was digging for.

Right now he needed to go to the bathroom and he’d never eaten his Indian. It was lukewarm but he didn’t care, shoving several pakora into his mouth one after the other. He needed to eat something, but his mind was screaming to get back to the Shellingford problem. As soon as his hands were clean he pulled his laptop out. Surely, surely, this would be it.

Less than an hour later the list was complete. Filling in the gaps proved easy with full names and Google, and this time Greg had to put the list down and press his shaking fingers to his head. The names whirled, and now Greg could see the thread pulling them all together.

Graham Delaney. Celebrated author. Best known for his character, country vicar Ignatius Shellingford.

Su Lin Xu. Spent a month in Shellingford, Oxfordshire last year as part of a rural exchange program.

Jason Anderson. Teaches during school holidays at a scout camp outside Shellingford, Oxfordshire.

Matthew Cameron. Wife’s maiden name Shellingford.

Bhawani Sindhu. Owns shares in a racehorse named Shellingford.

Kathleen La Rue. Registered nurse at the Greater London Hospice (Shellingford Wing).

Mary Allerton. Sister lives in Shellingford, Oxfordshire.

Thomas Anderssen. Works in family fish shop over summer. Business located on Shellingford Street, Bath.

Greg swallowed, reaching for his smokes again as his eyes raked down the rest of the list. No wonder nobody’d made the connection. Hell, he wouldn’t have made the connection. Not without looking for it specifically.

_Shellingford._

Surely it wasn’t as simple as that? He thought back to what Sherlock had said.

_Find the link and you’ll know where to go._

Greg hadn’t realised it was so literal. But if there was a village, and some of the people disappeared had links to this Oxfordshire village…

Google told him it was only a couple of hours up to Oxfordshire. Without another thought, Greg picked up his keys, but before he could get halfway out the door, he hesitated.

It was close to midnight. It was raining. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for in this town. Difficult as it would be, it made far more sense to wait until morning. He’d be able to have a shower too, and shave. No idea if he’d find Mycroft right away but it would pay to look his best.

It took every bit of self-restraint he possessed but Greg slowly returned his keys to the bowl. He should wait. Make sure he was rested for the morning. Without thinking too much, Greg readied himself for bed, stashing the uneaten Indian in the fridge for another time.

When he closed his eyes sleep came far sooner than he expected.

_The eyes were soft grey and familiar. They were gently amused as Greg searched them, anxious. He wanted to ask if Mycroft was alright, but something stopped him. Everything around Mycroft was fuzzy, as dreams so often were; instead he resigned himself to watching Mycroft’s expression for the slightest clue._

_“I am well.”_

_He didn’t so much hear the words as became was aware of their existence. It was less Mycroft’s voice than Mycroft’s essence surrounding the idea, and as Greg recognised the sensation it expanded to fill him with a calming certainty. He was doing the right thing. Shellingford, Oxfordshire was the right direction, and Mycroft was waiting for him._

It was a peculiar dream by any standards, but somehow a kernel of the warmth he’d felt there stayed with Greg as he set out for Oxfordshire. The drive was initially hampered by rush hour traffic, but he made good time once London was behind him. Greg wondered as he drew closer to the village. What would he find? Was Mycroft in Shellingford? From what Greg had been able to see on Google maps it was a tiny hamlet, hardly the kind of place someone like Mycroft would want to live. You couldn’t run the world from a sleepy place in Oxfordshire. How did Mycroft even know about it?

The questions swirled in his head until he finally pulled in to park his car outside the simple church. Greg stepped out, stretching his back as he looked around. It was pretty, he had to admit. The hour was early, the air still. Quiet, too. Certainly made a difference to what he was used to in London.

Probably start with a walk up the high street, Greg thought, heading towards the small collection of shops that passed for it. There was one coffee shop, and Greg gladly stopped, as eager for something to eat as well as a coffee.

“And what’s brought you out here, love?” the woman making his coffee asked.

“Ah, I’m a police officer,” Greg said, mentally apologising for his white lie. “I’m following a lead.”

“From London?” she asked.

“Yes,” Greg said. “Guess I must stick out around here.”

“Everyone comes in here what passes through,” the woman said comfortably, nudging his muffin close alongside his coffee. “And you’re a stranger, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Of course,” Greg said with a grin. “So you must know everyone in town?”

“There’s not a lot of town to know,” she said, “but yes.”

Her smile was encouraging, and Greg found himself confiding, “I’m actually looking for someone.”

“Yes, you said, dear,” the woman said. She hesitated for a second before asking, “Does this…person have a name?”

Greg nodded. “His name is Mycroft Holmes,” he said. The words felt hard to get out, and he swallowed, doubts quelling the warmth that had accompanied him from London.

_What if Sherlock was playing a trick?_

_What if he can’t explain what’s going on?_

_What if it’s something really serious?_

_What if he doesn’t exist anymore?_

Before Greg could get too lost in the anxious thoughts now spiralling through his brain, the woman’s face broke into a beaming smile.

“Wonderful!” she breathed.

“Is it?” Greg asked, startled. “Do you know him? Where I could find him?”

“I’ll have to see some identification please, Detective Inspector,” she said.

Greg’s heart thumped as he stared at her.

_She knows…so she must know._

_Holy shit._

“Sure,” Greg managed, pulling out his work ID. He’d put it in his coat pocket without even thinking earlier that morning. _Thank God._

The woman was beaming. “Thank you,” she said. “This is for you.”

She handed back his ID and an envelope.

“Thanks,” Greg said faintly. He picked up his coffee and muffin, and with a quick smile at her, he took everything over to the corner table. ID back in his coat, a gulp of too hot coffee he didn’t even taste, and with a shaking breath Greg pulled over the envelope, ignoring his muffin.

His stomach was twisting far too hard to eat right now.

Greg just stared at the envelope for a long moment. His name swept across the front in elegant script. _Gregory Lestrade._ He touched the letters, wondering if they’d been shaped with a fountain pen. He could almost picture long fingers wrapped around a pen, hesitating before they touched nib to creamy paper.

With a sudden impatience, Greg tore the envelope open. It contained a single card, heavy and expensive looking. His name was at the top but Greg automatically looked for the signature. His heart leapt at the ‘M’ scripted below the last line. With a heavy swallow he pulled his eyes back to read the message.

_Gregory –_

_My deepest apologies for the inconvenience this has caused you, but I must beg one further indulgence. Should you be willing to travel a little further, there is a small residence west of Coln St. Alwyns, approximately half an hour north of here. The lane to Rose Cottage is marked, should you wish to find it._

_Please know I feel your absence keenly and you would be most warmly received._

_– M_

Greg swallowed again. _You would be most warmly received._ It was clearly meant for him and he could only think of one person that could have put all this together.

“Excuse me,” he said, abandoning his morning tea. “Can you give me directions to,” he glanced at the card again, “Coln St Alwyns?”

“Of course,” she said, beaming.

The directions were clear and it was right on half an hour later Greg slowed as he drove past the short stretch of shops that identified Coln St Alwyns. A little over a mile outside of town Greg saw the sign. _Rose Cottage._ It appeared new; the letters were carefully picked out in white against the dark wood. His fingers flexed on the steering wheel as he turned off the sealed road onto the laneway, heart easing up a gear. The hedges were high, and he craned his neck to see around the bend. When the hedges opened out and his destination became clear, it was all he could do to remember to put the parking brake on before he stopped.

The cottage was from a picture book. It was aptly named, roses climbing the walls to meet the shingled roof, the morning sun winking off the deep set windows. There was a stream running behind the building, but the sound faded when Greg recognised the figure standing in the doorway.

Perfect suit, though less severe than his usual London attire.

Erect posture, hands resting on the umbrella in a pose Greg had seen a hundred times.

Face impassive – but Greg fancied he could see tension behind the watchful eyes.

Mycroft.

_Mycroft._

Now that he was here – actually _here_ , looking at Mycroft, the nerves kicked in.

_What am I supposed to say?_

Greg gripped the steering wheel for a second before he climbed out of the car. It felt like a million miles as he stood there, but when he took the first hesitant step forward, it was only half a dozen steps until he was standing in front of Mycroft, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

“Hello,” he said quietly. There was barely a whisper of sound other than the brook. He felt his heart heave as the anxiety in the grey eyes registered. “You’ve been expecting me.”

“Good morning,” Mycroft replied quietly. “Sarah phoned as soon as you left Shellingford.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but closed it again.

_He’s nervous._

“This is beautiful,” Greg said lamely.

“Would you like to see the grounds?” Mycroft offered. His fingers flexed on the handle of his umbrella, underlining his nerves.

“Sure,” Greg said. He followed Mycroft’s lead around the side of the cottage towards the water. “Is it your place?”

“It is,” Mycroft replied.

“Have you had it long?” Greg asked, remembering the newness of the sign.

Mycroft didn’t reply until they’d passed the vegetable patch. “No,” he admitted. “Though I have considered the purchase for a long time.”

Greg nodded. “It’s very different,” he said. “To London.”

He had no idea what to say. It felt like the wrong moment to have the big conversation with Mycroft. As they walked, the usual confidence and air of power that surrounded Mycroft was conspicuously absent, and it was disconcerting. If Greg found it strange, he couldn’t imagine how Mycroft was feeling. Whatever happened, he didn’t want to push anything. Clearly Mycroft knew why he was here, yet he was not saying anything important. Greg just had to be patient.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed. He paused by a rosebush, touching a petal contemplatively. “Thus the attraction.”

The word sent a frizz down Greg’s spine. From the way Mycroft froze, it affected him too, and he turned to meet Greg’s eyes. Fear laced his expression, and Greg wondered if he would sidestep the opportunity to begin the important conversation again. He tried to hold the grey eyes, smiling slightly, hoping it was reassuring.

_If you need me to wait, I can…_

“I suppose I owe you an explanation,” Mycroft said, his words barely carrying.

Greg’s heart heaved as he realised it was starting. Mycroft was being brave, shaping words he obviously found immensely difficult. A swell of pride rose in him, and the term of endearment along with it.

_Well done, sweetheart…_

“You don’t owe me anything,” Greg said. “If you don’t want to.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “You’re not curious about the photo? Or the people?” He didn’t ask the third question, but it sat between them anyway.

_Or why I did it all in the first place?_

“Well, yes,” Greg admitted. He frowned. “I just mean…you don’t have to tell me…more than I need to know. To understand what all this is about. If that makes sense.”

“I understand,” Mycroft said. He swallowed hard, an unsteady hand indicating a garden seat overlooking the tumbling water. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Actually I’d rather not,” Greg said. “Drove up from London today. I’d rather stretch my legs if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. He took a deep breath, shifting his grip on his umbrella. “Recently I decided to resign my position in London.”

“Seriously?” Greg asked. Of all the things he might have expected, this was not even on the list. His heart fluttered in his chest as conversational possibilities opened up ahead of him. “Wow, okay…”

“Well,” Mycroft said modestly, “I suspect there will be some demand for my services on a freelancing basis. That can be largely managed from the cottage. International travel will not be a service I offer.”

“Oh,” Greg said. “Is that good?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I don’t need to work,” he said simply. “I no longer enjoy the challenge as I once did.”

“You don’t?” Greg asked. The question that came to him felt important. “What’s changed?”

Mycroft looked at him steadily for a while. As Greg watched, calm seemed to settle over him as though accepting a path chosen. “Are you not curious as to why I engineered this entire charade?”

“Yeah,” Greg whispered. “I am.”

He shivered, the moment settling light on his shoulders. He felt the world recede, only the soft sound of the water competing against his heartbeat. Mycroft turned back to examine the roses, his words floating back to Greg before he turned back.

“I felt you take the photo.”

The change of topic startled Greg, but he could feel the flush steal up his cheeks as he registered the words and Mycroft’s eyes on him again. “Oh,” he whispered.

Mycroft began to speak again, holding Greg’s gaze. “The Kayapo tribe of the Brazilian Amazon use the phrase ‘stealing a soul’ to describe ‘taking a photo’. They believe forming an image of someone literally removes a part of their definitive being. Their soul.” He paused to let Greg process. “For most people this is not true…but it is possible to engineer it so. Given a command of certain forces…for some people it is made their reality. Each photograph taken cracks a splinter off their soul, anchoring it to the image as it is created.”

“Magic?” Greg whispered. “Are you talking about…magic?”

“I am,” Mycroft confirmed. His voice cracked and he winced at the sound.

“And that’s what happens to you?” Greg asked in disbelief.

_Jesus..._

“It is,” Mycroft replied quietly.

Greg opened his mouth but realised he had no idea what question to even ask. Instead he blinked, accepting he would take whatever Mycroft wanted to offer. The passing seconds were slow, but he was content to wait until Mycroft was ready.

“As you can imagine, I go to great lengths to avoid being photographed. I am fortunate to be in a position to extensively control my environment. With some exceptions, of course.”

“Sorry,” Greg murmured. “I should have asked…”

“Please don’t apologise,” Mycroft said immediately. “In this instance, I felt it as it happened, but it took some time to determine where the image had gone. The next time we met at a scene, I could feel its presence.”

“You can feel the photo?” Greg asked in astonishment.

“The piece of soul yearns to be reunited with the whole,” Mycroft said quietly. “They pull towards each other.” His words were matter of fact, but the underlying pain pulsed through them, sharp and bright to Greg’s ears.

“Holy shit.” Greg breathed the words without intending to even say anything.

“The direction of the pull told me you were carrying the photograph. I just didn’t understand why. I needed to know how important it was to you. How important I was. So I made plans.”

Greg blinked. “What?”

Mycroft inhaled deeply. “Some souls are more deeply connected to their consciousness than others,” he said, glancing at Greg. He must have looked as confused as he felt because Mycroft continued, “Not all cursed people notice the splintering of their souls as a photograph is taken. Most, in fact, don’t.”

“But you do?” Greg asked carefully. He wasn’t sure how to react to the edge of bitterness in Mycroft’s voice. Obviously this was a very personal story, and Greg didn’t want to offend him. It was a bit dramatic, saying he was cursed, but Greg could understand how living with such a condition might engender some resentment.

“I do,” Mycroft replied.

“And…why is that?” Greg asked. Surely something else had happened…

Mycroft looked at him steadily. “The simple answer, or the truth?”

Greg swallowed. “Both,” he replied, relieved he sounded convinced. “If you want to tell me.”

Mycroft’s expression didn’t waver. “The simple answer is that my consciousness is more attuned to my soul than in most people,” he said. “The truth is somewhat more…complex.”

Greg waited, not speaking, hardly breathing. He could see Mycroft searching for the right words.

_Come on, sweetheart. You can do it…_

“My brother and I endured very sheltered childhood,” he began. “It wasn’t until my coming of age we understood why.”

Greg frowned. “Hang on, your brother has this soul thing too?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “My parents adopted me after I was abandoned by my family. My parents hold certain beliefs, and they chose to live with others that share such beliefs. When I was born, it was clear I could not remain with them so they left me on the steps of our village church. Years later, someone tracked me down and explained why.” He swallowed hard. “The Spirit Keeper from our clan laid the curse on me, as she did all redheaded children.” He smiled without amusement. “She was, by all accounts, powerfully gifted. Feeling the damage as it happened was her special twist.”

“You were _actually_ cursed?” Greg whispered.

_Jesus, he was serious about the cursed people…_

“That my soul would fracture to inhabit any image made of me, and I would endure the pain of it,” Mycroft repeated the words. “They believed redheaded children to be…unsightly.” He shifted. “The belief is not unique.”

“Unsightly…” Greg whispered. “Is that why Sherlock’s so…”

“It is,” Mycroft confirmed. The shame was clear on his face, though he still held Greg’s eyes.

“But you live in London,” Greg said, voicing the question that had occurred to him earlier. “Are you saying there isn’t a single image of you with all that CCTV?”

“My position holds a level of influence over the cameras in London,” Mycroft replied. “My soul is…imperfect, but I strive to find and reunite the pieces of my soul, should they be removed.”

Greg’s head was whirling. “And you can…feel it when someone takes your picture?”

“I can,” Mycroft replied. “I am extremely careful not to be photographed.”

“Does it hurt?” Greg asked. He winced. The question had slipped out and he feared it sounded juvenile – but Mycroft did not belittle him. Of course it hurt; he’d already made that point, but Greg couldn’t take the question back now.

“Yes,” Mycroft said quietly.

“And you…knew it was me?” Greg asked him. He knew Mycroft had answered this already, but the whole story was so fantastic he needed confirmation of the details.

“You carried a piece of my soul with you,” Mycroft reminded him. “I could feel it when we were…close.”

“Oh,” Greg whispered. Somehow it didn’t sound as bananas as it might have, the second time around. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Mycroft said. “Please, don’t.”

Greg blinked. “Don’t apologise for stealing a piece of your soul?” he asked.

“You were hardly to know,” Mycroft replied. “And it gave me…hope.”

As the admission left his lips, he blushed hard.

_He really is a ginger._

_Hang on, hope?_

“Hope for what?”

The blush deepened. “That you might…wish to find me, should I disappear to Oxfordshire,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg blinked. “So you really did do all this? Hang on, what about all those people?”

Mycroft stepped closer, then seemed to pull himself up. “I assure you, no one has been harmed.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “They haven’t?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “Not all Spirit Keepers hold the same beliefs,” he said, pausing several times as he found the words. “Some are more…empathetic. I was fortunate enough to find one capable of remarkable feats. There is no counter-curse, but she taught me certain…skills.”

Greg was still trying to figure out what Mycroft was insinuating when he spoke again.

“Rest assured, Gregory, in a short time they will return to their lives, and the entire affair will be forgotten. By all involved.”

“All?” Greg asked.

“Most,” Mycroft amended, flicking him a sideways glance.

Greg nodded. “So, what now?” he asked. There was still a lot he didn’t quite understand, but it didn’t seem to matter. The explanation was enough, and when it came down to it, he and Mycroft were standing here in Oxfordshire, entirely alone and with potential swirling in the air around them like autumn leaves borne by the wind.

Mycroft hesitated. “That’s up to you.”

“You said I’d be warmly received,” Greg said carefully.

“I did,” Mycroft replied.

Greg didn’t hesitate, taking a small step forward. “I’d quite like that.”

Mycroft blinked, the rest of him frozen at Greg’s words. “You would?”

“Why do you think I took that picture?” Greg asked. “And kept it with me?” He swallowed. “And noticed you were gone?” He frowned. “How did you do that, by the way?”

“As I mentioned, magic may be used to one’s advantage,” Mycroft said. “By some…people.”

Greg nodded. He had the feeling Mycroft was glossing over details, but he didn’t care. Now that he was close enough he could reach out to take Mycroft’s hand. It lifted off the umbrella at the first touch of his fingers, turning to thread their fingers together without hesitation. It felt wonderful.

“So, if this place is the plan,” he said, “I’m in.”

Mycroft’s eyes grew wide and the response was in his eyes before his mouth fully opened. In a flash, Greg realised his mistake.

_He thinks I mean I’ll move in here…_

“No, no,” Greg said hastily, “I mean up here in general. Not,” he waved one hand at the cottage, “here. Specifically. With you.”

Mycroft visible swallowed. “ _I_ did,” he whispered.

Greg’s heart thumped hard, then soared as Mycroft’s hand tightened on his. “You did?”

Mycroft nodded.

In the years to come, Greg never did ask exactly how Mycroft was able to manipulate the world as he did that first year. Or how he ensured the roses at their cottage bloomed so prolifically, or how he made sure the chocolate soufflé rose perfectly for Greg’s birthday, every single year. The small cupboard in the back room was Mycroft’s alone, and Greg did not comment when parcels arrived from faraway places. He simply smiled, raising his hand to cup Mycroft’s cheek, feeling the exhaled air skitter across his cheek as they kissed. He didn’t care about the how.

It was all the same, he thought.

Just a little bit of magic.


End file.
